


The Flame in Winter

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Sex, Smut, kinda pure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Kudos: 28





	The Flame in Winter

The world was dizzyingly white, and Sansa was reminiscing upon another life. When she had been Alayne Stone, mistress of the Vale. When there had been great war and turmoil, and when Winterfell had all but been lost. The Boltons had ruled the north then, but he had won it back, and she had been crowned Queen. She had shed all her titles, Bolton and Lannister, and embraced her heritage her as a true Stark, and a true and good ruler. And Jon had stayed with her. Jon, who she had once believed brother, though even then she had known he had none of the illegitimacy of Bran and Rickon and Arya. He had never been the child of a Tully and a Stark, though his blood ran with Stark blood as much as her’s. But she had never truly understood Jon, despite her efforts. He was the True King of the Seven Kingdoms, but he had sequestered the throne to Daenerys Targaryen. And as much as she was loathe to admit it, Winterfell was a mark of who he had once been and how had he had suffered. In the North he was always a bastard and for it he had been ostrachized, but he had decided to stay as her Hand.

She had been cruel to him then, crueller then he had deserved. He had deserved no such emnity and over the years she had tried to be kinder to him, to repent for all the spite. He had forgiven her - Jon had always forgiven her, despite how she had treat him, he had always been kind to her - but she had always felt like there was something else between them. It riled her, and stirred some wavering heat in her stomach, that touched her and fought away the tinge of sadness she felt whenever she saw him. She sat for a moment, watching the burning hearth, the fire that licked the logs and consumed the wood with some ravenous hunger that Sansa faintly recognised. Uneased, Sansa rose from the chair by her fire, and wandered over to the window. The bailey below was illustrated with bright scenes of joy - children ducked between the archery range, laughing and smiling, where she too had once played, and boys struck each other with wooden swords, a strange, rhythmic dance. That saddened Sansa too - she had sworn off marriage until the North had recovered from the damage that had been done during the War of the Five Kings, and she could not mother a bastard. That was a privilege Kings and Lords alone could enjoy, and so it would wait. 

The snow fell quickly, the flakes and the winter frost gathering at the window sill. It had always enamoured her, for she had been a child of High Winter, and she had lived the Long Night when it had come anew. Despite that, she would always alone remember that day in the Vale when it snowed, though she did not know whether it would always be such a fresh memory, or in time it would be nothing more then a faint stroke of remembrance. She remembered those she had known there - Lysa who had been killed by Petyr, and Petyr who had in turn been killed on Sansa’s order by her sister and her closest friend, Arya Stark, and Sweetrobin, the Lord of the Vale, who had become a moral man and a good Lord, who cared for his people an for the peace in Westeros. It was always hard to believe that she had once been a tantruming child, and it had been Alayne who had cared for him.

There was a brusque knock at the door, and Sansa was startled to see Jon, and even more startled to see a long gash across his shoulder, one that had cut the leather fabric of hos in two. She felt something akin to fear as he winced with pain - some weeks ago Jon had sustained another sparring wound above his thigh, and he should not have been sparring again so soon. ‘Jon, what have you done? We have a meeting of the council in a few hours, and these advisors need no more stock to convince themselves my Hand is a ruffian.’  
‘I am not a ruffian, Sansa. I was simply sparring with one of the boys.’ He sounded grim, but Sansa could see him restraining a smile. She went over to a table, and found a roll of bandages. There was also salve, that she had brought up into her chamber when she had realised there would not be a turn of the moon in which Jon had not sustained many wounds. She had also quickly realised that he was too embarrassed to go to any other. She doused another patch of cloth in wine, as she had done many times before, and when over to Jon. ‘Sit, Jon, and removed your tunic. I can do many things, but binding a wound through torn leather is not one of my many talents.’

Jon seemed startled by this, and he quickly become hot with blush. Still, he removed his shirt with much pain, and took a seat in the carved chair by the hearth, the chair Sansa had occupied only moments later. Sansa went over to him, and braced herself against him. Jon was beautiful, there was no doubt of it, and oft a time she had imagine him as Florian, her shining knight. His chest was chiselled by hours of labour and sparring, and the drenching flame only increased his beauty. It flooded the nave of his throught and cast shadows across his chiselled stomach, drenched in sweat, and set alight a deep hunger within his eyes. She dabbed at the wound delicately as she could, but still Jon drew away. Each attempt to clean the wound continued this way, Jon wincing or shifting to avoid Sansa’s touch. Frustrated, Sansa finally shifted to meet him, hooking her leg over his thigh and slipping a hand behind his black locks of hair. At first her touch was tender, but when Jon again made a half hearted attempt to move away from her he was surprised to find he could not move away, though whether it was by her strength and own sheer volation or Jon’s lack of want to truly evade Sansa’s touch, he could not tell.

He struggled for another few, brief moments, but quickly gave in, sliding down in the chair, sulking. Sansa slipped beneath him, and had to press into him to steady herself once again. ‘You must not harm yourself in this way, Snow, for I cannot have a hideous man riddled with scars as my Hand. I want my people to trust my Hand as an extension of myself, not run screaming with terror. Try to be prettier, Jon, or I will have to give in to what Edmure has wanted for so long.’ Sansa smiled, and Jon laughed. It was a weak laugh, Jon knew, for he was distracted by who was before him. It was still the girl he knew, and she was still the same as she had always been, but to Jon she was almost another woman. Her hair burned with lucid fire, and her eyes were not the cold chips of ice he had always thought them to be, but clear pools of water in high summer, nets that caught the light of summer and blazed with all the beauty of life and bountiful spring. 

Caught within a trance, Jon’s hand quivered and rose to entwine itself within Sansa’s hair, all shades of fire, like the pyres of a woman Jon had once known, scarlet and shifting crimson, carmine and vermilion and vivid imperial red. Jon did not think Sansa had noticed, until she removed the cloth faintly and met his gaze. ‘I only held your hair to stop you moving, Jon. There is no need for you to hold me.’ But Jon did not remove his hand, and neither did Sansa move to free herself from him. Sansa leaned closer, until they were only inches away. His breath was hot, and Sansa shivered as it broke again her and slid like water across her neck. The gaze lasted for several moments until Jon’s hand moved from her neck and cupped her face, and they finally understand the strange, alien friction between them. It was not spite or emnity or hatred, but an emotion so simple that both Sansa ans Jon were surprised they had not recognised between each other. Hunger. Vivid, burning hunger, ravenous hunger that consumed them.

Jon swiftly drew Sansa towards him, and they kissed. Their lips brushed together, as they tried to draw out whatever was between them, but the slow struggle between them ended when Jon drew Sansa to her feet and took her to Sansa’s bed, laying her out on the fur blankets, drawing her into a stirring kiss that Jon moaned into, a small grunt that Sansa smiled out. For a moment, they stared at each other in the light of the fireplace, Jon in Sansa’s arms. ‘I have waited years for this.’ Jon smiled, and Sansa smiled back.  
‘Even when I was cruel to you, all those years ago?’ Sansa pondered to the man before her.  
‘I forgave you. We were children. You are that Sansa no longer. You are kind and you are good; you have become all the dreams of you I had, even as boy. You are the Sansa I knew you could be, and despite all the evil you have suffered, you are better then you are were.’  
‘Stay with me.’ Sansa whispered, and she was almost pained to imagine Jon leaving.  
‘I will never leave you. Why would I leave a dream, a dream I have wanted all my life?’  
With that, they resumed. Jon worried briefly for Sansa’s dress — She had suffered much at Winterfell, and oft she wore clothes had done be underdone by a lone stroke, but her dress fell away, the lace coming undone with such ease Jon almost wondered if Sansa had kept faith in this moment. How long had she suffered this torture, waiting for such a moment? Jon had wanted it, and now it had come, and his hunger was sated.

He drew her into the furs of the bed, and Sansa propped herself upon the pillows and Jon knelt before her. He threw the furs backwards, and Sansa spent a long moment fiddling with his breeches. She could feel the hardness beneath the leather of his breeches, and he quickly slipped out of the breeches and discarded them. He lowered himself to her, and drew her close to him, desperate to please his lady . His tongue flitted across her languidly, until Sansa cried out in frustation and he swirled his tongue in a rhythmic motion, gladdened by her rising moans of pleasure as she arched backwards, lost in the joy of such as she had never felt before. She had considered such things as taking a man to bed, but had never considered that she was allowed this - she had always been told his pleasure the man, but Jon had surrendered himself completely to her. This continued for several moments, until Sansa cried out and all her seed came flooding forward, and he drew his tongue away.

Sansa had enjoyed such pleasure, and for a moment she was achingly desperate to pleasure him to in such a way. She leant him over the ledge of the bed, and in turn she took his member into her mouth. He moaned beneath her, and she was glad. She was the instrument and the fountain of this pleasure that she remembered from only moment earlier, and as she teased his tip with his tongue Jon cried out in exasperation. Finally, he gripped her head his hand and forced her head down on his member, until she nodded upon him and felt him tense between, gripping the furs with such vivacity that his knuckles were stained white, and he cried out, arching upwardly and crying out as he came into her, searing seed that filled her mouth in successive spurts. 

Eager to share what they had both felt, Jon and Sansa stumbled into their bed, and put Sansa before him. Jon had not taken a woman before, save for the wildling Ygritte, but he had heard much of it from from Theon and Robb as a boy. He lent before Sansa, and in one swift moment he thrust himself into her. She moaned beneath him, and Jon grunted too. Sansa slipped a hand again into his hair, and gripped in tightly, drawing him closer. His was slow, initially, and it was painstaking, his thrusts aching. When he reached his length, Sansa was already drunk with pleasure, for the pain had faded away and each inch was searing and bountiful pleasure. His prick was fully within her, as Theon Greyjoy had once said, who had long learned to describe in poetric verse all the phases of such base pleasures. ‘I am not hurting you, Sansa?’ He asked, his voice delicate. ‘You could never hurt me, my love.’ 

His paces quickened, and his erection throbbed with the rapture of the moment, and he moaned, drawing Sansa’s legs to his hipsand remaining with all the great vigour. They reached their climax together, and she enclosed him, like the scabbard of a sword, closing around him until he seared into her, pulling out from within her between such spurts of delight. Even their breaths came in tandem, and Jon knew this was what his life would be. Pleasure and rapture, love and joy.

For the first time in many years, Jon was truly happy, and Sansa felt such as he did. They were safe together, and that was all they truly wanted.


End file.
